


Watching You Watching Me

by catarrhini



Category: The Hobbit (2012) RPF, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Age Difference, M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-26 23:23:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catarrhini/pseuds/catarrhini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aidan comes to visit for a week at Richard's summer house in Greece. When Aidan wakes up in the middle of the night, he stumbles across a little more than he bargained for in the form of Richard jacking it on the couch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watching You Watching Me

The plane ride into Athens had been an uneventful one. I’ve never liked flying. It always felt like I was tempting fate. Were I a superstitious man, I might have crossed myself the moment I set foot on solid, Grecian turf. The tiny, ancient cargo plane that brought me the short distance from Athens to Hydra shook and spluttered so that my knuckles were white on the seat handles. I’ve never liked airports, either, but this tiny terminal on this lesser Greek island seemed a century old and the sun filtered kindly in through the arched walls, and at the very least, it felt like something both real and remote at the same time. And I was completely faceless to the handful of milling strangers grabbing luggage, which left me feeling euphoric. And Richard was standing there far across the room, dressed in boat shoes and navy and khaki, his eyes meeting mine and a warm smile lighting his face.

I’m worried I might have walked way too fast to him just to be able to throw my arms around his tall frame. I realized then just how much I had missed my friend since all of the hoopla from the Hobbit premiere died down. He embraced me, a chuckle and a breath of spicy aftershave wafting over me as he mumbled, “Welcome to Hydra port, Sister-Son.”

“Well met, Mother-Brother!” I replied in automatic response. He chuckled again.

“Mother-Brother – I had forgotten about that one. How ridiculous you are.” He grasped my shoulders and held me at arms’ length, looking me up and down with mirth. “You look well. Though,” he paused to lift a lock of my hair away from my cheek, “You look like a beatnik with your hair grown so long. Confound these glossy black curls of yours.” I grew uncomfortable under his scrutiny, and even though I smiled at that, he must have noticed, because he took my suitcase from my hand and directed me towards the sunny exit with an open palm pressed to the small of my back. “You eat lunch yet?”

“On the plane into Athens. Where’s your car?” I asked, my eyes scanning the beautiful seaside village. I took a moment to appreciate the miles of untamed sea stretching out before the collection of old buildings and open air markets. The town nestled itself on the face of a gently sloping hill that comprised the island itself. Bursts of terra cotta and butter yellow met with shocks of green cedar and olive trees and expanses of scarlet poppies, a welcoming panorama awash in fresh sea breeze.

“No cars on Hydra, Aidan. The island's too small,” he replied with a winning grin. “We walk.”

“Walk?”

“About fifteen minutes,” he replied. “It’ll be good for you anyway; you look like you could use some sun.”

Noticing the golden hue his skin had taken since I last saw him, I joked, “You look like you’ve had too much.” I knew I didn’t mean it. Richard was perfection like this, a creature made of sun and surf. I felt a burning jealousy in my stomach for this man who managed to be over a decade my senior and still more attractive than I’d ever be. Next to him, I would always look like a wild-eyed gobshite.

“You ever been fishing?” Richard asked, a break in his fast pace down the unending system of stone steps cutting through the village. The trek was already leaving me winded, but Richard took it all in stride.

“Fishing?” I could feel scorn knitting my brow.

“Well, I shall seek to remedy that immediately, if you’re amenable.” He took a quick veer left and trudged through tall, reedy grass towards the shoreline.

“I think you’ll find me perfectly amenable,” I replied, “If only you’ll tell me where you’re taking me now.”

“My dock.”

“Your dock.”

“Aye.” And Richard maintained his quick pace until we reached a small dock jutting into the sea. At the foot of the dock, he grabbed a fishing pole and tackle box while shoving my suitcase back into my hands, and we marched in tandem to the end of the dock, where a wide canoe of sorts was tied haphazardly to a metal hook. He kneeled to work the rope loose, looking up at me with a smirk. “You can set down your suitcase, you know.” I felt my face burn red, and I dropped the case to my feet. A hundred meters to the left on top of a small cliff stood a modern house overlooking the water, all glass walls and angular trellising and hardwood detail. I immediately wished I could call a place like that home. When I looked back to Richard, I found that him staring at me, that small smile still on his face. He rose from his crouching position and dropped the fishing gear into the skiff. He reached out a strong hand to help me aboard, since the boat wobbled fiercely. I fervently hoped I wouldn’t fall into the clear, blue water.

“So, majestic vessel you have here,” I joked as he seated himself facing me, his long legs coming to rest against the outsides of my bent knees. He fiddled with the fishing pole and said:

“My yacht is docked in the harbor.” He said it so casually, so flippantly, as though everyone owned a yacht, no big deal. I had no words. “It’s a joke, Aidan.” He paddled the skiff into deeper water.

“Ah.” As I said: wild-eyed gobshite. He handed me the fishing pole, which I took with clumsy fingers. I imagine my expression conveyed my confusion. “I’m at a loss, mon capitaine.” He took the pole from my hands again and gestured for me to come forward. I leaned in close.

“No, come sit here,” he sighed with a long-suffering air and patted the area of canoe seat between his thighs. “I’ll show you how to cast. Come here.” I can’t explain why such a feeling of pause overcame me. At length, I gingerly moved to sit on the plank, his chest and thighs pressed against me tight. My hands shook as he placed the fishing pole back into my hands. I inexplicably started freaking out. In a low voice, he instructed me, “Put your hands here. And here.” His long fingers corrected my grip. “Now, you lean back, like this. And flick, like this.” He forced my arm effortlessly forward. It would have been a good cast, I imagine, if I weren’t a total gobshite and let the pole slip completely from hands. My stomach dropped as we watched the pole launch into the air, as though in slow motion, splashing inch by inch into the water several meters from the skiff.

“Shit, Richard,” I stammered, burning with horrid humiliation when the pole was lost to its aqueous oblivion. I jerked around and launched myself back into my seat. “I’m so, so sorry.” His stony face looked back at me, irritation tight across his brow. I entertained the possibility of throwing myself in after the pole and just never coming out again. When his eyes knit into a glare, my entire body heated with embarrassment.

With tight lips, he replied, “You’re lucky I caught some fish yesterday.” He caught my gaze with his horribly intense eyes. I wanted to die right there until I noticed something crack in his expression, and I realized that he was thoroughly enjoying my shame. I could see that he was just barely concealing gales of laughter, which somehow didn’t help. “It’d be a shame for you to starve. Oh, well. We can just relax here on the water for a while, if you’d like?”

“I’m really sorry.” It was all I could really offer in response. He reached over to me and roughly grabbed the fingers of my right hand.

“The fishing pole is immaterial, Aidan.” He reclined back, stretching out with his arms folded behind his head. “So, really, how have you been?”

“It’s been pretty quiet for me since we finished promoting the movie,” I said, wishing I had something more interesting to say for myself. “Adam and I have been hanging out, but… I’ve mostly just been spending my days on Netflix, I’m sorry to say.” He laughed at me.

“Well, I’ve obviously escaped to the sea, as you can tell,” Richard said, gesturing towards the house at the top of the hill. A gentle wave rocked the boat slightly as the sun shone down on us. A cool breeze stirred my hair. “Anything good on Netflix?” I hated the way he asked the question, like he was humoring me, like I was an adorable little kid.

“I, uh, actually just finished watching Robin Hood,” I admitted.

“My Robin Hood?”

“Yeah, you were brilliant in it,” I gushed like a teenage girl. “Your scenes were my favorite.” Even as I was saying it, I was screaming at myself to shut up already. I could have imagined that he found my candor charming, but I’m sure I’d just be fooling myself.

“I’ve been meaning to watch Being Human. It’s in my queue,” Richard tells me. Immediately, I wanted to tell him not to and that the show is rubbish. The idea of him watching me on screen upset me for reasons I cannot fathom. I just smiled and tried to recline, but I lack his grace and poise. I abandoned my attempts as hopeless. I hummed a noncommittal sound and we fell into companionable silence. I seized the opportunity to soak in the beautiful landscape surrounding us.

The sun had begun to set low in the sky by the time it occurred to Richard to row us back to the dock. He grabbed my suitcase and began the long climb up the stone steps that scaled the rise to his house. I tailed behind him, struggling to maintain his pace. He flung open the door on the back patio and kicked his shoes off as we entered. I followed suit. Once inside the foyer, Richard raised his arms wide and said, “Mi casa es tu casa. Make yourself at home. Guest bedroom’s this way.” A wide hallway to the left of the foyer housed several bedroom doors and the bathroom, Richard was quick to show me as he deposited my suitcase in what would serve as my bedroom for the next week.

The open floor plan made the house seem airy and bright, the floor to ceiling windows of the living room area welcoming streams of dying orange and pink sunlight to brighten the interior. The view from the living room windows was breathtaking, a panorama of open sea to the right and the whole of the port’s harbor miles below to the left. I turned my back to the windows to see Richard bustling about the kitchen, placing a pot and some bottles of spices on the bar that separated the kitchen from the living room. “Hungry?” He asked with a charming smile. I nodded vehemently. He uncorked a bottle of chilled wine and poured a glass, bringing it to me where I stood in the living room. “Thirsty?” He asked when he placed the glass in my outstretched hand.

“Thanks,” I answered quietly. I wasn’t sure, but I would almost promise that his fingers lingered too long against mine. My throat tightened. I hate it when my mind plays stupid tricks on me. He returned to the kitchen and set about chopping vegetables and herbs and bits of fish, combining these ingredients in a large pot on the gas range. He quaffed a slug of his wine, Adam’s apple bobbing.

“I make a mean fish stew,” he said, eyes intent on his work. I meandered around the hyper-modern sofa that faced the enormous flat screen TV on the far wall and seated myself on the barstool in front of him, sipping my wine and watching him work. He spoke about his life in the village for the last five months, his hijinks when Jimmy came to visit a couple of months ago, fielding calls from his agent, new wines that he’d been trying. His warm, low voice calmed me, and I realized quickly that jetlag and spending several hours in the sunlight had taken quite a bit out of me. By the time he thumped a large, earthenware bowl full of hearty fish stew in front of me, I was nearly nodding off.

The stew was delicious, and I told him so. He nodded in thanks and ate where he stood in front of the stove. Silence fell as we tucked in, and soon I was belching my appreciation as I shoved an empty bowl back towards him. “I’m knackered, Richard. Utterly.”

Placing both of our bowls in the sink, he said, “The shower’s yours if you want it first. I’ll tidy up in here.” Giving my thanks once more, I excused myself for a shower. When I had finished and dried and dressed in my pajamas, I leaned into the living room to find Richard flipping through channels on the couch. I cleared my throat to get his attention. Turning to face me, he asked, “Feel better?”

“Like a new man,” I replied. “I’m off to bed now. Thanks for a good day.”

“More than welcome, Aidan.” He flashed me another of his brilliant smiles. I smiled in turn. “Sweet dreams.”

“Sweet dreams,” I echoed, and I didn’t want to leave him in that moment. I fought the urge to curl up on the sofa next to him and rest my head in his lap, a desire that surprised me both in its nature and its urgency.

“I don’t need to tuck you in, do I?” He asked, his voice a thin line of irony. My heart beat blood straight to my cheeks.

“Of course not.” I peeled myself away to go to my bedroom, stealing one last glance at the back of his head. I fell asleep moments after my head sunk into the plush pillow.

It must have been hours later when I woke. Through the bedroom window, I could see shell pink just barely beginning to infuse itself into the night-black sky and its thousands of stars. My limbs felt heavy under the silky bedclothes, my throat parched. I rose, shoving aside the bed sheets and silently stumbling towards the kitchen for a glass of water. I grabbed my empty, abandoned wine glass and then noticed that there was dim, flashing light coming from the living room. From the end of the bar, I could see that Richard was still watching TV, and I balked at the thought that the man just didn’t sleep.

With surprise, I realized that he was a couple of episodes into Being Human. I took the opportunity to watch him then, wondering what he was thinking of my performance, wondering if he didn’t find me completely hopeless. My friends and family had told me how good I was in the show, but for some reason, it just really mattered what he thought. The nerves rose in my stomach, my anxiety at a peak when I realized that he was about to watch a scene of me that was particularly intimate. Just as I moved to interrupt him, those same nerves stilled my hand and silenced me.

Then, spread across a huge screen right in front of Richard came images of me being thrown back against a wall by a female costar. I watched my face go slack with passion, blood smeared across my lips, eyes dilated black with bloodlust, obscene groans leaving my lips, my chest heaving. As soon as it started, the scene was over. My heart pounded in my chest, the anxiety nearly overcoming me. Somehow, my heart leaped once again as I watched Richard reach his arm out, remote control in hand, and rewind the video. Again, my panting and lolling eyeballs filled the screen. My hands started shaking when once again, Richard rewound the video to watch me in the throes of pleasure. I prayed for him to stop, but a sinister voice whispered in my mind that I wanted this. I wanted Richard to be incapable of taking his eyes off me. I wanted to affect Richard. The epiphany left me reeling. When Richard paused the video, my face frozen on the screen, eyes screwed shut and mouth hung open in desire, I realized my entire body was taut like a bowstring. When I heard a zip being drawn down and saw Richard lift his hips to shimmy his tight trousers down around his thighs and take himself in hand, the bowstring snapped. I became vaguely aware of the sound of smashing glass, and I realized belatedly that the wineglass had slipped from my slackened fingers and shattered around my bare feet.

“Shit!” Richard hissed and jerked his head around, looking me square in the eye, his face fallen in panic. He frantically yanked his trousers back into place, pleading “Aidan, I’m sorry.” My knees were already wobbly from shock, and I lost my balance, stepping right onto a shard of broken glass. I knew it had pierced the skin before I even saw the blood drip onto the hard wooden floor, black in the low light of the room. Rising from the couch, Richard held out his hands in a stop gesture. “Be still. You’ll cut your feet open,” he commanded, shuffling over to flip the light switch on. Recessed lighting filled the space with a comfortably bright glow. His shoulders dropped when he saw me gingerly keeping weight off of my bleeding foot. “Hold on. I’ll find the first aid kit.” He disappeared down the hall and returned a moment later with a white Red Cross kit in tow, haphazardly slipping on a pair of trainers. “Can you walk?”

“I don’t-“ came my stilted answer. He looked so flustered, so panicked. It was intoxicating to see Richard Armitage having so thoroughly lost his shit. I’d step on broken glass a thousand times to have him looking at me the way he was then.

“Here,” he muttered as he tossed the kit onto the couch and crunched his way through the glass to slide an arm under my armpits and lift me like a child off of my feet. His strength and intense expression overwhelmed me. He carefully laid me onto the couch, my head cradled on the angular armrest. Sitting at my feet, without a word, he lifted my injured foot, inspected the gash on my arch and lightly felt for any glass that might have stayed in the cut. He tore open a packet that contained an antibacterial wipe and gently swiped away the smeared blood. I hissed from the sharp sting of alcohol on my wound. He murmured soft placation. He seemed to have forgotten that my face was still frozen across the television. Following my line of vision, he swore and then quickly turned off the set. The red that colored his cheeks set my blood aflame, I was horrified to realize. With his fingers brushing gently on my feet, and the outline of what is clearly a still mostly erect cock in his trousers, I found a sudden heat in my crotch that was most unexpected, not least of all because I’m absolutely not gay. Richard had always fascinated me, yes, but that doesn’t mean that I am gay. I was filled with the need to get away from him, and yet…

“Richard, I-“ was all I could get out before he interrupted me.

“I feel I should explain myself to you,” he started. I waited, desperate for his next words. “It’s just that I thought you were still sleeping, and I would have never… That is, had I known you were awake, I…” He meandered off for a moment as he wrapped my foot with gauze. “It’s just a small cut, but the outer extremities just have a load of capillaries, which is why there was so much blood,” he mumbled quickly. I saw a small smear of my blood on his knuckle. I wanted to lick the skin clean. That thought sent another shock of heat to my crotch. Finally, he lifted his eyes to mine, a look of heady contrition in them, and said, “I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t mean for you to see that.”

And in a fit of madness and at the whim of something very wonderfully treacherous within me, I sat up and reached forward, lifting his fidgeting hand in my own, pressing his palm against the fledgling stiffness of my cock. He seemed frozen, so I pressed his hand firmly against me, rutting it twice with my hips. Richard sucked in a deep breath, his eyes now hot with desire, scalding my body. It was a heady, addictive drug, his gaze. “Richard,” I said, not knowing why I was speaking at all. My heart was pounding, my cock growing harder with each pulse of my frantic heart, and all I could say was “I’m not even gay.”

“That’s immaterial, Aidan,” he growled, giving my cock a delectably punishing squeeze. He shoved me back into a supine position, batting away my hands, crouching into position between my legs. His blue eyes never left mine as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of my pajamas and slowly slipped them down past my knees and tossed them nonchalantly behind him. I failed to suppress a shiver as I took in the sight of myself, clad only in tight dark grey boxer briefs, my cock seriously straining against the fabric, and Richard placed his hands flat on my hips as he leaned down and placed a chaste kiss to the outline of my cockhead. “I’d like to fuck you, Aidan Turner, if you’re amenable.”

“I think you’ll find me perfectly amenable, Richard Armitage,” I sighed, and he pressed kisses up and down the length of my clothed cock, opening his mouth to suck my cockhead, his saliva darkening the fabric. He ripped a needy moan from me, which he took as a cue to slowly pull my boxers down, my cock nodding free as my boxers went by the way of my pajamas. He pressed his hands to the insides of my thighs and pressed my legs open, dropping his face to my crotch and inhaling deeply. His eyes fluttered closed.

“Do you know,” he paused, “that you have a beautiful dick?” I couldn’t answer. The wet, warm suction of his mouth on my cock took my breath away. His tongue snaked briskly back and forth across the underside of my shaft as he bobbed shallowly, the sensation wholly fantastic. He pressed my legs open deeper still, almost bringing my knees to rest at my shoulders. Still enthusiastically, he sucked, pausing to swipe grievously pleasurable circles around the slit of my cockhead. I gasped freely when he dropped his head once more, taking me deep in his throat, the tight muscles wringing a strangled groan from me. My legs began to shake; he was just so fucking good with his mouth. He gagged and yanked back up, thick strings of saliva trailing behind. Fisting my shaft, he rolled my aching bollocks in his incredible mouth, his tongue darting to tease my perineum. I almost saw white. His deep voice washed over me when he growled, “Is this good, Aidey? Is this what you want? Are you hot for it?”

“Oh, yes,” I just barely moaned, “Want you so bad. Love your mouth.” He latched his mouth onto my cockhead and hollowed his cheeks, sending more delicious jolts of hot, filthy, dark pleasure coursing through me. While he sucked, he grazed his nails ever so slightly against the skin of my balls and shaft, a sensation that nearly brought me to the precipice. “Yes, Richard. Like that. I’m going to come. I’m gonna-“ Fantastic heat burst forth, but Richard squeezed tightly at the base of my cock. I wailed as he thwarted the orgasm that no doubt would have been one of the best of my life. He looked me dead in the eyes and grinned, the evil cockslut. Frustration left tears in the corners of my eyes.

“Not like this,” he growled, his fingers still circling my cock tightly. “Now, when I let go, you keep your hands off,” he instructed as he leaned to the floor to grab a packet from the first aid kit. It only then occurred to me that he was still completely clothed. It made me feel vulnerable and incredibly sexy to be splayed before him completely stripped, my cock tinged purple against my belly. He tore open the little packet and squeezed the creamy white contents onto his index and middle fingers. “Burn salve,” he informed me. “Ought to work in a pinch.” He began fisting me as he slipped a finger in through the ring of muscle left bare to him. The thought, Oh, god, he's inside my body hit me like a ton of bricks, yet as tautly as I was wound, he somehow managed to relax my arse, slowly working in a second slicked digit.

“Please, Richard,” I begged, so ready for him to be inside me, hot for it like I had never been before, giving myself up utterly in abandon. He took his time for a few more moments, working his fingers in and out of me, eyes intent on mine. “Please don’t make me wait.”

He slid his fingers from my body and stood abruptly to kick his trainers off his bare feet, peeling the navy shirt from his body and flinging it across the room. He unfastened his trousers and unceremoniously thrust them to the floor with whatever undergarments he’d been wearing. His torso was a magnificent fucking work of art, a line of chest hair leading to a dark thatch of curls around his hard, heavy cock. Drawing himself up to his full height, he looked down at me reclined on the couch and tugged twice at his veiny shaft. A moan passed his lips, making my body run hot and cold. He batted my legs out of the way, sitting down on the couch, squeezing the last of the salve directly onto his cock. He shot me a sideways glance and grumbled, “Come straddle my lap.”

My heart dropped into my belly as I scooted to straddle his thighs, careful of my bandaged foot. I rested my sweaty hands on his naked shoulders and breathed him in. He smelled of musk and sweat and sea salt and the herbs from dinner. I wish I could bottle Richard Armitage to help me through lonely nights. I looked down into his face, now so closed to mine, my skin pressed to his skin when he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me in close for a searing kiss. His reddened lips against mine felt like coming home. I was lost in his kiss, in his eternal blue eyes, in his embrace, overwhelmed by joy. An aching longing filled my chest, madness and despair its companion.

“Sweet Aidan,” he whispered against my lips. “Why are you crying?” I didn’t realize that tears had sprung to my eyes until the words fell from his lips. I would have quailed with mortification, but the tenderness in his voice choked the source, and I pressed another searing kiss to his lips, reveling in the warmth of his arms and broad chest, the sensation of his hot breath cascading down my own chest.

“I need you now, Richard,” I breathed against his temple. “Please give me what I need.” Passion overcame us once more, and he dug his fingers into my hips, roughly lifting me. I loosely grasped his firm cock and guided it to my entrance. I bore down on him, taking his cock steadily into my core. The sensation pulverized my senses, the feeling of his cock inside me a constant battle of pleasure and pain. I took his entire length and seated myself in his lap, gasping for air, my head lolling on his shoulder. His embrace tightened around me, and without a word, he thrust once up into me, slow and rough. Again, a determined pistoning of his hips left me gasping. I may have moaned breathless obscenities into his ear. At length, the bucking of his hips grew in intensity, and the sensation of his cock sliding in and out of my body became nearly too much to bear. I braced my hands on the sofa back behind him and bore down on him, meeting his thrusts with euphoric grunts. His own voice was an almost steady growl of curse words and pleas.

Soon, Richard’s thrusting grew arrhythmic and shallow, and he reached a hand between us and gripped my rigid cock in his strong fist. I was drawing near completion when his head dropped back, his back arched and his legs straightened with a final, powerful, sustained buck of his hips. His groan echoed through my bones, and I was so fucking close to blowing my load that everything outside of him and me faded to a dull buzzing. He jerked my sensitive cock three, four more times, his hard cock inside me wringing a rush of white hot fire from my balls, flashing in dripping lines up the length of Richard’s gorgeous chest, some dashing his chin. The moan that ripped through me left my throat ragged. I sagged against him, and we stayed like this for a sacred moment.

“Oh, dear,” he whispered against my neck. “It seems we’ve made a mess of ourselves.” I tried to chuckle. He kissed my damp skin and continued, “What say we clean up and you sleep with me in my bed until noon or later?” I pressed a tender kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah,” was my reply. “I’d really like that.” And just like that, I would be sleeping blissfully naked in Richard Armitage’s arms. And the kicker of it all is that I’m not even gay. Which, I’m told, is immaterial.


End file.
